Saturday Night Clubbing
by Autumn Luna
Summary: Iggy stood open mouthed, looking at the scene before him. How could he have been so daft? It was completely obvious now that he thought about it. The loud music, the bouncers right outside. This was a bloody gay club. With bloody dancers and everything.


**Hello again my lovely readers! Throwing out a Hetalia story for a change! Great, ain't it?**

**Anyway, rated T for language and the goings-on in this "bar". = u =**

**As for the plot … I dunno guys. It just sorta … hit me. xD;;**

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><p>England couldn't believe that bloody <em>prat <em>had talked him into this. There had to be nothing else more mortifying than what he was about to do and where he was about to go. The poor sap. England had gone and fell for that _damned_ puppy look America always gave him when he wanted something.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, it worked.

So where, exactly, was England being dragged to on this cool, Saturday night you may be wondering? Well, the younger nation that was America had decided to drag him along to a _bloody_ gay bar.

What is God's name made America think that this was a jolly-fucking-good idea? It was a _horrible _idea! What if one of their mates saw him there? What would they think of England then? Everyone must've thought that England was a civilized country, an honest, no nonsense man who would never think of doing something as _stupid _as heading out to a gay bar.

Maybe England wouldn't be judged if they found out it had been all America's idea, and the poor, older nation had been dragged against his will? Who knew?

England sighed quietly to himself. _Get a grip on yourself, England. Maybe the night will go well! _The optimism in that thought was high. _Just because this was America's idea doesn't mean that I can't try to enjoy myself._

Speaking of America, said nation had the other's wrist gripped firmly in his hand as he led him away from the older nation's old car and towards the bar, seeming to be a bit _too _eager about the whole thing. Actually, America may have lied just a tincy-wincy bit when he had said this was _just_ a bar. It was a good freaking thing that he was leading; America could feel the smirk continuing to grow on his full lips.

England could feel that something was a bit off here in this situation as he glared daggers at the back of the American's head, which America had appeared to ignore. "What's got you so bloody smug?"

America made a very big effort to wipe the expression off of his face, replacing it with his usual cheery grin. "Dunno what you're talkin' about, Iggy!~" America replied, looking back in front of him. _Geez, doesn't that guy know how to be freakin' patient? _America thought to himself, oblivious to his own hypocrisy, _It's a surprise! Duh! _

This response frightened England to no end, and he was just about to open his mouth again when he heard the music. It seemed offly loud for a bar. He should know—Blimey, did that slip out? Regardless, this was beside the point.

England held his breath as America led him through the door, two really big looking guys acknowledged Alfred with a nod as he passed through; they looked England up and down with a murderous suspicion however. What the hell was going on?

"Guys, guys. It's cool! He's with me! Do you honestly think an epically cool and responsible hero like me would do something so irresponsible like bringing in someone who was underage?" America explained in a cool tone, looking towards the two as if they were freaking nuts. England had picked up that impression, regardless.

The two seemed satisfied with this answer, and let them pass. _Idiots, _Iggy thought, shaking his head.

Though, it was then that the Englishmen found that _he _was the one who was an idiot.

Iggy stood open mouthed, looking at the scene before him. How could he have been so daft? It was completely obvious now that he thought about it. The incredibly loud music, the two men – _bouncers –_ right outside. England was such a fucking prat.

_This was a club. A bloody gay club with bloody dancers and EVERYTHING._

That bastard. England swore he was going to kill America for this.

"_YOU BLOODY WANKER!" _England shouted over the loud music, glaring malignantly at the American. America laughed at England's reaction. "C'mon, man! Lighten up! I brought you here to have some fun!" America spoke as if they were just going on a bike ride through the park. This was something completely different. Completely and utterly different. Stupid, stupid America.

"I'm going home, America," England announced, turning around to head for the door. America grabbed his wrist with that insane strength he was known for. "C'mooooonnn, England!" America whined, pouting as he did so, "You can't party at your boring old house! Come on, have a drink, England! Socialiiiiiiize!" Upon emphasizing the word 'socialize' America wiggled his eyebrows.

England looked downright disgusted, but he knew he'd never hear the end of it if he didn't comply. With a dramatic sigh, full regret in that very exhalation of air, he replied to America with, "Fine." England was so gonna regret this.

America cheered with a fist punching the air and a, "Woohoo! That's what I'm talkin' about!" and led England through the crowd. America thought for a moment. What were they gonna do first? Get a drink? Hit the dance floor? England apparently decided for him when he led the American to the dance floor. "Let's get this bloody over with," he said over his shoulder. _Boy, _America thought, _that guy sure likes to say 'bloody' a lot._ America dwelled on this very random thought until his short attention span had snapped back onto the matter at hand. This was, you know, dancing with England.

There was something there in the Englishman's eyes that moment. Something that dared America to make the first move. Was America being _challenged?_ To a _dance off?_ In a _gay club?_ This was def gonna be like, the best night ever!

Suddenly, as the two nations took their stance, a new song kicked in. It was that one song that you always wondered whether or not they actually played this at these kinds of clubs. Well, just then, England got his answer.

The song was "Gay Bar" by Electric Six.

England would never forget the day America had shown him that video, him promptly responding with a, "What the _fuck?"_

Apparently America had been thinking of the exact same thing, because he laughed loudly before breaking out in what he would call his "epic dance moves".

_I am soooo boss at dancing, _America thought to himself, pretending not to notice England's expression of utter shock. Oh yeah, Britain was so jelly.

England felt somewhat dumbfounded as he watched the American pull off his 'epic-dance-skills'. That twit was actually a good dancer, but England was better!

Waiting patiently for his turn, America soon stopped dancing and gestured that the floor was all England's. England smirked at the American, which seemed to have taken him aback, and his mouth almost dropped to the floor.

England was busting some _sweet_ moves that America had never seen before! It was like, totally awesome! No, not totally awesome. This was like, _uber _awesome. America had to say that he was thoroughly impressed. And he felt that England had looked _rather sexy _as he danced there in his spot with that smug expression on his face. Pushing those thoughts aside (he'd found that they'd become increasingly frequent, and decided to ignore them) he knew that he'd have to do something even better in retaliation.

The younger nation never got his chance.

The song was about halfway over when a very large man (bald and pug-faced) had gone and took it upon himself to smack Iggy's ass. Apparently that man thought that England had looked pretty hot himself. Sudden anger flared up in the young American, and just as he was about to say something, England just about lost his freakin' mind.

"BLOODY HELL," the Englishman cried, looking very, _very _angry_. _England spun himself around, decked the man who had _dared _to touch him, and, with the mood basically killed, Iggy stormed off to the bar, announcing to America that he needed a "fucking drink".

America glared at the man who was currently holding his face in surprise. What a freaking _kill-joy! _They'd totally been gettin' down – or whatever those damned kids said these days – when he'd gone and completely interrupted them! America, being the hero, felt he needed to do something (even though something had already been done) and was about to walk up to the man when he felt a hand grab his hand and pull him through the crowd.

But it wasn't England.

"_France?" _America had been taken utterly surprised as he was dragged to the bar, just stools away from England, who was already downing his second drink. What was he drinking anyway? A mojito? Ugh, whatever the hell it was, that was beside the point! What was France doing here?

"What are you doing here? Trying to get it in with an unsuspecting stranger?" America questioned with a sort of awkward wink.

France chuckled at America's immediate questions and accusations. "Oh nonono, I _work_ here." he stated simply with a hand loosely on his hip. America just stared at him, though after a moment, he found that he was totally unsurprised. "But what are _you _doing here in a place like this Mon ami?" His eyes followed the direction which America was looking. "Ohohon!" France practically purred, smirking a very seductive smirk when noticing England sitting in front of his second or third drink of an alcoholic beverage. Usually America would tease France for this, but he realized he wasn't in the mood to encourage France's perverse behavior.

"Yeah, I gotta go France!" America stated, totally brushing off the other male as he walked into the direction of England. "Cya round!" Well, he hoped that he wouldn't see him around honestly. America just wanted to get away from that creep.

"Use protection, yes?" France shouted after him with a smirk and wave, suddenly disappearing into the crowd. As much as France would love to, he wouldn't dally with the two. That protective side of America was showing, and he didn't need to have some part of his body replaced due to the pummeling he'd get for flirting with England.

"Yo, England!" the American greeted him, happily clasping said male's shoulder. England made a move to quickly shove off whoever was behind him, but when he realized it was only America, he sighed deeply, downing the glass.

"Whatcha drinkin'?" the American wondered, sitting on the stool beside him. England looked down at the glass. "God, I don't even know."

America grinned, patting England's back, "That's the spirit, man!" England rose a questioning eyebrow at the younger nation before groaning and ordering another drink. "Gimme what he's having!" America ordered the bar tender. Several drinks later, America remained unphased, and highly intrigued with whatever the hell he was drinking. It was so fruity! And sooo delicious!

England, on the other hand, gripped his head. The room began to spin, and everything suddenly became much livelier. England threw his glass down on the ground, a loud crash sounding as glass flew everywhere, but seemed to miss any innocent bystanders. England began tilting his head from side to side, humming to himself a tune before breaking out into the sond. "Oh na, na! What's my name?" very loudly, but in somewhat brilliant tune. If you hadn't guessed, "What's My Name" by Rihanna had apparently been playing.

America grinned. "Dude! You sure can sing when your blasted!" he said in a giddy tone.

The man sitting beside America looked over towards England and rose an eyebrow. "Is he yours?" the man asked, looking towards America, a sudden smirk flashing onto his face, "Cause if he ain't, I'll take him off your hands." The man winked.

Again, America could not respond. His mouth barely opened before England took it upon himself to point angrily at the stranger and shout, "You dunno me! I'm the United Bloody Kingdom!" And with that, he did something that shocked both the stranger and America himself.

England mushed his hands on either sides of America face and laid a _very dramatic_ kiss on the younger nation lips. The taste of alcohol was fresh in the Englishman's breath. That was the very first that ran through America's mind. The second was, _WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? _The third was, _Iggy's totally drunk, man. _America _so _wasn't seme tonight.

This was utterly perfect though! Something America could hold over England's head for the rest of his days! Oh, this was great! Not only was he having a really great time, but he had blackmail. Score!

Geez, it was as if England never kissed the man. But England was drunk right? It didn't matter. England didn't know what he was doing. His own lips were tensed as England's were soft and relaxed. He continually tilted his head, as if he wanted to go further into the kiss, but America was so in shock, he just sat on his barstool. America's jumbled thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the stranger's sudden surrender.

The stranger held up his hands in a sign of backing down. "Hey, hey. I get it, man. Chill." He grumbled, turning back around and taking a sip of his beer.

With that, England nodded his head in a sharp gesture, satisfied with the man's response. Standing up, he stumbled off the bar stool, and grabbed America, dragging him back to the club's dance floor. "Let's go dance!" England declared in slurred speech. "Have a bit o' fun during this bender."

America replied with an eager, "Okay!" He really enjoyed this side of England. Even though he was drunk, he finally didn't have a stick up his ass for once. And so, the two of them danced like there was no tomorrow. When the two began dancing awfully close to one another, they found their way in a large ground of people the same way. The smell of adrenaline, lust, and sweat was in the air around them. That was, until the people on stage got their attention.

Shirtless men with nothing but purple bowties and very tight-looking speedos on began to pour onto the stage, providing the long awaited entertainment. The stages with poled were each taken by one or two men, the main stage taken by a rather attractive male with flippy brown hair.

Cheers and whistles spread like wild-fire through the club, most of the men raising their glasses in response to the warmly welcomed entertainment. Going with it, America cheered. You know, why the hell not? England sure as hell was shouting his ass off in his drunken state. America grinned, thinking to himself, '_If only I had my freaking camera!' _His attention was on the stage and everyone cheering,when suddenly, France made another appearance.

"Ah, l'Amérique!" France shouted in greeting, grinning. America looked France up and down, who was now in a very skimpy outfit. Luckily France didn't notice America staring for a bit too long at him. France wasn't paying attention; he was glancing around the club, looking for something, or someone. "Oh, but, where is my little Angleterre?" France asked. Not directly towards America, but it did make America snap out of his stare and start to glance at his side.

"_Huh? Are you going blind, man? He's right here,"_ is what America _would _have said if England were actually standing beside him. But, he wasn't. America felt something that rarely wedged its way into his heart before it jumped into his throat. Panic. America felt himself starting to panic when he looked left and right, seeing no sign of England.

Frankly, if England weren't completely and utterly drunk, America wouldn't give a shit. Considering that he was though—

There was a loud shouting coming from the stage, interrupting America's panicked thoughts.

'_Aw, hell, Ig…' _

America looked up towards the stage, eyes widening. And there was England. Dancing on stage with nothing but his briefs on. America had to choke down a laugh. He wanted _so desperately _to laugh and go along with the whole freaking thing, but he knew he couldn't.

"Holy fuck France! Look!—" America pointed, stifling back a laugh. When not getting the usual 'ohohon!' from the male, he realized that he had left. "France?"

America looked back on stage, realizing for the first time that France was wearing the same outfit as the other dancers. _'Awwwww shit.'_ America watched in horror as France took advantage of the drunken England. Pelvic thrusting in a smooth motion behind the blond on stage, England soon registered what France was doing. America hoped to god that England would suddenly come to his senses and either storm off for another drink or drag America to the car in a fit of utter embarrassment.

Neither of the two happened, so England proceeded to dance with France in a very suggestive way, grinding his hips up against France's unmentionables, groaning in a way that made the French male smirk. That's when America put his goddamned foot down. Reminding himself that he was, in fact, the hero, he jumped dramatically on stage, grabbing hold of Iggy's wrist and declaring, "Let's go, Arthur." Using his real name for the first time that night.

The party-animal American voice in the back of his head was going, '_Noooo! What the hell are you doing, man? You're ruining the fun! Stay up there and get your Dance Dance Revolution on!' _

For maybe the first time in his life, America chose to ignore it. _Holy-freaking-hell. _America was acting _responsible _for once. Stupid England and his goodie-two-shoes self. Well, when he wasn't drunk.

England tugged for his wrist back as the dancers suddenly hesitated, just glancing towards the Brit on stage, and the music continued to play regardless. The men below were yelling for America to get his ass off the stage, but again, America ignored them.

"L-Lemme go, you stupi' wanker!" England exclaimed, tugging back for his wrist. America didn't speak with the older nation any longer. France put his hand on England's shoulder, soon resting his head on the opposite side of the other's head. "Why ruin mon petitami's amusement? He purred, knowing perfectly well that this was frustrating America. However, America wouldn't let that 'frog,' as England usually called him, take advantage of the drunken man. He crouched down and picked England up bridal style, dragging him off the stage and away from France. America began to wonder where England's clothes had gone, but he chose not to go back and get 'em, in fear of getting the crap beat out of him. or something, and then England winding up on stage again. England bitched and complained the whole way to the car, but finally shut himself up when he'd been tossed into the car.

The car ride home was silent; England had already gone and dozed off. America let out a sigh, smiling slightly at his now calmed face, not lightly tinted pink. He began to take pity on the poor man, not only for the massive hangover he was gonna have, but because of the deep shame he was going to feel tomorrow. No doubt America was gonna tell England _everything _that happened first thing tomorrow morning.

Though America had basically decided to make the right decision instead of getting up there and dancing right along with him – shocker, right? – he still stood by his statement.

_England. Could. Party._

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><p><strong>And that's the end of that crack fic! What did you guys think?<strong>

**-glances at clock- Dude, it's almost three in the morning. No wonder. **

**Alright, I suppose I gotta do disclaimers now.**

**I don't own Hetalia, and I don't own any songs mentioned in the fanfiction. Or Dance Dance Revolution. = w=**

**And please don't yell at me for song selection. I dunno what they play in gay clubs. ; w ;**

**Credit to my friend Jessica for being editor for this little story. … Sheesh what's her penname? Psychotic Reality. Yeaaaah. That's it. And she'll prolly correct me if I'm wrong!~ **

**So uh, thanks for readin'! R&R, da?**


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